


His Lady's Niece

by tullyblue12



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 09:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19354072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tullyblue12/pseuds/tullyblue12
Summary: "You're much prettier than Lysa.""Thank you, my lord.""Too pretty to waste on a sick boy."Sansa is sent to Casterly Rock to wed her cousin Robert, son of her mother's sister Lysa and Ser Jaime Lannister.





	His Lady's Niece

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I had based on the would-be betrothal of Jaime Lannister and Lysa Tully in the books. I really enjoyed writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it!

She’s lost again. She’s always losing her way in this boorish castle, too immersed in her own thoughts to notice which halls lead to which staircases so she can get back to her room. Sansa has many thoughts lately, most of them less than pleasant. She doesn’t feel like she belongs here. Just a few short months ago she was in King’s Landing, set to marry her beloved Prince Joffrey. Two years spent at his side, but she never won him...or his mother. Margaery Tyrell did, though.

“Your aunt is looking for you,” calls a voice behind her. She turns her head to see the acting lord of her prison, Ser Jaime Lannister, bedecked in his crimson armor, hand firmly grasping his longsword in its scabbard. 

“I will find her at once,” she replies dutifully. She immediately bolts off in the opposite direction before a strong hand catches her by the arm and pulls her back. 

“When one receives news like that, she should run  _ away  _ from the Lady Lysa, not towards.”

She breaks free of his grasp, unamused by his remark. Her uncle has made his dislike of her aunt blatantly clear since her arrival. In truth, her aunt offers him no courtesies either, only a sickly son Ser Jaime takes no interest in. 

“I am a guest of your lady,” she says sweetly. “I must see what she needs.”

“ _ You  _ will need nothing short of a flagon of wine when you’re through. Don’t count on me to send for it.” He leaves her there to wander her way through the halls of Casterly Rock and face the wrath of her aunt, while he loses himself outside of the castle walls. He plays at his swords and rides his horse and swims in the sea; his greatest talent is delegating every responsibility to his staff. 

It had been Sansa’s mother’s idea to send her here. Horrified when the betrothal between the Prince and Sansa was dissolved, branding her eldest daughter permanently, she sent a desperate letter to her younger sister at Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister’s other grandson through Jaime and Lysa, the young Robert, is Sansa’s new future. 

“Where have you been?” shrieks Lysa when Sansa finally catches her. 

“I am sorry, Aunt, I was lost.”

“You have to pay attention. Come now, Robert wants to play with you.”

_ Playing  _ with Robert usually consists of sitting at his bedside and watching him throw his wooden toys at the wall to see which ones break. It is an affair Sansa can do very well without. She finds herself wishing she had taken Ser Jaime’s advice after all. 

Each night they dine in the great hall with the other Lannisters. Aunts, uncles, cousins...all Lannisters. It only makes Sansa stick out even more, though she tries not to let her nervousness show. One day she will be the Lady of Casterly Rock; she best not feel like a stranger in these walls. 

It is only during these dinners with his kin, over countless conversations and an endless flow of wine, that Ser Jaime is jovial. Aunt Lysa, on the other hand, never warms, and Sansa wonders how this woman could be related to her loving mother. 

Ser Jaime corners her after dinner that night, on the way to her room. He has an advantage over her, for he knows where everything in the castle is. 

“Did you invest in that flagon I recommended?”

She’s had quite a few sips of wine herself at dinner. It makes her braver. “I would have, if my lord was kind enough to procure it.”

He laughs. “I give you the best guest quarters in Casterly Rock, I give you my son to wed, and you ask for more?”

“Only something sweet to dull the pain,” she says with a playful smirk on her lips. The door of her solar lurks ahead of her and she bows to her escort. “Goodnight, my lord.” 

He starts to make a habit of escorting her to her room at night. She knows he’s never acted this way for any other of his castle’s guests. Her cheeks burn from the attention, but the rest of her aches for it. Jaime never does anything he doesn’t want to, except act as lord of the castle, but he’s even found ways around that.  _ This _ , however, whatever routine they fall into is fueled by his own want, and she loves it. His eyes always gaze at her hungrily, his lips are parted, teeth bared. His beautiful features are not tense at all in these secluded candlelit halls, so different from his expressions under the harsh sun. 

“You’re much prettier than Lysa,” he whispers one night, weaving a strand of her auburn hair through his fingers. 

“Thank you, my lord.” 

“Too pretty to waste on a sick boy.”

“The maesters say he’s growing stronger.”

Her companion chuckles darkly. “They’ve said the same thing since he was born and still he barely leaves his bed. Can’t even lift a sword.”

“I have faith he will grow strong.”

“Of course you do. You wouldn’t want an  _ incapable  _ husband, would you?” he asks suggestively, the hypnotizing spark in his eyes returning. They call him the Kingslayer. She remembers her father telling her how dangerous an honorless man is, how Ser Jaime has no honor. When he looks at her like this on their walks to her room, she thinks he  _ is  _ dangerous; she thinks he’ll slay her next.

His hands grip her waist and linger improperly as his eyes stare into hers. The tips of his thumbs gently brush the hint of her ribs and her body feels aflame as she wishes he would drift higher,  _ higher, oh higher, touch me please _ . She can feel her heart quickening and the tension between her thighs begin to build. Instinctively, she arches her back, allowing him a much better view of her chest, but he does not indulge her. “Goodnight, niece.” 

Abruptly he releases his hands. She almost reaches for them back, but she decides that would be too shameful. “Goodnight uncle,” she bids breathlessly. 

Aunt Lysa still has Sansa sit at Robert’s side during the day. She reads to him sometimes and does needlework while he reads to her. He is only seven years old, the lone survivor of a long line of children who never lived past Lysa’s womb. She pities him and grows a love for him similar to the love she had for her younger brothers. Looking forward, though, she dreads their marriage. Robert is known as the weak lion. How will the Western lords pledge themselves to someone like him? 

She knows it weighs heavily on Jaime’s mind, especially with the letters his father is always sending him from King’s Landing. 

“My aunt Lysa may still give you another son.”

“ _ Seventeen  _ years we’ve been trying,” he tells her. “My father writes of having the marriage annulled.” 

“On what claim?” Sansa asks, suddenly worried for her mother’s family. Her Uncle Edmure, so hot-headed like Jaime, will not take kindly to the insult.

“On whatever puts gold in the High Septon’s pockets.” He angrily runs his hands through his hair. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s even my son at all.”

Sansa wants to assure him, to say that of course the Lord Robert is a true Lannister, but she has her doubts too. How could a man so handsome and strong produce someone as frail as Robert? The boy doesn’t look much like Jaime when she thinks about it. He has Lysa’s features and his hair is red like all of the Tullys, but a deeper shade, so dark it is almost black in certain lights. Jaime’s hair is the most magnificent shade of gold, and his body too. His eyes shine like the rarest emeralds when she looks in them. She looks in them much longer than she should. 

“You’re older than Robert,” he says, as if he had not just voiced a troubling suspicion. He says it like it’s a secret when really it is a joke to everyone in the castle. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.” 

“A  _ woman _ . You must get so tired of waiting for my son to grow.”

“I have my ways to pass the time.” 

“Oh?” His top lip curls provocatively. “And what ways are those?” 

She doesn’t know what comes over her. Perhaps it is her hand placed firmly on the golden handle of her bedroom door, assuring her an easy escape. “I think of you.” 

He receives a letter from King’s Landing the following morning, an invitation to celebrate the Prince Joffrey’s sixteenth nameday. It says King Robert will be hosting a tourney in his son’s honor. Jaime never rejects the offer to compete. He loves anything that makes his blood hot. 

“Will my lady join me in King’s Landing?” he asks begrudgingly over dinner. 

“Oh, you know I must stay with my sweetrobin,” Lysa tells him offhandedly. There’s no love between Lysa and Jaime now, but Sansa wonders if there ever was. Maybe before the dead children, before Robert consumed Lysa’s every waking moment.

“I could join you, my lord,” Sansa offers. She never speaks to Jaime at these dinners, conversing instead with his aunts Dorna and Genna and his younger cousins. If anyone knows about her encounters with Jaime before bed, they never speak to her about it. Sometimes she wonders if they’re even real. 

“Does Casterly Rock cease to entertain you, Lady Sansa?”

“Of course not, Ser Jaime, but I would like to be reunited with those I left behind in the capital.”

“Like my nephew?” 

She flushes before clarifying, “Like my sister. She remains in King’s Landing as the betrothed to Prince Tommen.” She tries to say it indifferently, like it still doesn’t sting that Joffrey didn’t want her. By the gods, he was betrothed to her. The North was supposed to see one of its daughters as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Then Margaery Tyrell of the Reach came along, with her low-cut dresses and her connections and her family’s grain. King Robert proposed to wed his younger son to Sansa’s sister Arya instead. Their father accepted; he accepts everything King Robert proposes.  

“You’re not included in the invitation, I fear. Only 'Ser Jaime Lannister and his lady wife'.” 

Kevan Lannister counsels, “Surely your sister will not object to hosting your lady’s niece.”

She can see Jaime thinking it over in his mind. Jaime takes a long look at her aunt Lysa and then gazes softly at her. She feels as if he can see through her skin when he looks at her. She would love to go to King’s Landing with him.

Lysa finally tells him, "Take the girl, Jaime. She can send my well wishes to the Prince." 

Jaime smiles. “By all means, Lady Sansa, it would be an honor to escort you.”  

It’s Genna Lannister who confronts her, just before she is about to leave with Jaime. She’s been busy with the preparations for her trip, particularly with sewing some new patterns for her dresses. Lady Genna catches her just as she finishes packing the last of her things. 

“My nephew is very handsome,” she tells her. Sansa nods silently. There isn’t a woman alive who can deny how beautiful Jaime is. “He’s turned so many heads and torn just as many hearts. Tread carefully, child. Your aunt may be oblivious to your feelings for him, but that does not mean we all are.” 

_ Your feelings for him _ \--the words leave a heavy pit in Sansa’s stomach. She hates the way Genna Lannister makes her feel. It’s as if her feelings are completely one-sided, like Jaime doesn’t take her arm every night and pin her to her bedroom door with his longing stares and heavy hands.

That night when Jaime offers his arm to escort her, she rests her fingers on the muscles of his arm, grazing them softly. This catches her companion’s attention; usually she keeps her hand still.  

“I hear it will take fifteen days to reach King’s Landing,” she says when he does not speak. 

“It will, now that you will be in a wheelhouse and require handmaidens to attend you. I can ride the distance in eleven days.”

“Would you rather I did not come?” she asks.

“No, I would rather you rode a horse.”

“That’s not how most ladies travel,” she teases, playing with his muscles once again.

“And tell me, is every aspect of your behavior perfectly ladylike?” When she hesitates, he spins her gently by the arm so she faces him instead of standing side-by-side. The arm that has been escorting her, the arm she’s been playing with, wraps around her waist and tugs her closer. 

They hear footsteps down the hall, and she knows their stolen moment will end soon. The steps continue, each louder than the last, and her face is so close to Jaime’s that she can feel his hot breath on her lips. As his hand tightens around her waist, as her breathing increases, she realizes she never felt  _ anything _ like this with Joffrey. 

She reaches her own hand to caress his jaw. Softly, quickly, unashamedly, she kisses his right cheek. “I’ll see you at first light,” she whispers in his ear. She thinks he’s going to keep her where she is, so close to him that anyone would be scandalized to see. Normally she wouldn’t want to leave him, but the footsteps make her nervous. If the wrong person catches them, Aunt Lysa will send her away, and then no one will take her. Even worse to her, she may never see Jaime again. 

Jaime seems less worried. She wonders if he even hears someone coming as he looks at her. In the time it takes for Sansa to withdraw her lips from Jaime’s ear, his strong hands frame both sides of her neck and guide her back to him. He leads his lips to hers in a bruising kiss that feels like she’s never lived before this moment. She immediately wraps her arms around his torso, as an anchor for herself and an invitation for him to stay. It’s better than all those stories she used to read like sacred texts, feeling this kind of passion as she fervently melds her mouth to the great Jaime Lannister’s. Too soon, she is cold again, when his lips are gone from hers, and his body so far away.

“I haven’t kissed anyone like that in years,” he growls in a way that makes her knees bend. Every ounce of her wants to kiss him again. “See you at first light,” he repeats teasingly, perfectly recovered from their carnal moment. Her head is still spinning, and she mercifully escapes into her room just as the figure turns the corner. She shrinks against the door as the steps pass, holding a palm to her chest and counting the erratic beats. 

Sansa doesn’t sleep at all that night. The hours creep by slowly, and her only thought is Jaime Lannister. She sees him again when they leave, at first light just like he said, but he does not speak to her. He rides his white destrier at the front of the party, both man and horse dressed finely in crimson. She is in her litter with a few of her ladies, so far away from him. 

Even when they make camp, he doesn’t call on her. Not alone, anyways. She is invited to sup with him and a few other members of his household, but he is careful not to show her any special attention--cruelly careful. He barely speaks to her beyond asking how she is faring on the journey. 

“Fine, my lord,” she says on the eighth day. 

“Not going mad in the litter then? I couldn’t sew and read for days on end.”

“They are some of my favorite pastimes,” she tells him respectfully, trying to hide how his neglect hurts her, even though she knows he cannot treat her the way she wants him to. She is not his wife. 

“I’ve heard Northern women are fond of riding,” Jaime mentions. 

“My sister is.”

“Not you?” he asks beneath furrowed brows. “Do you know how?”

“Of course I know how.”

“Well, then, if you ever tire of your sewing and reading and  _ waiting _ , you are welcome to join us on horseback. We have a mare for you if you please.”

She smiles. “Thank you, my lord. Perhaps the air will do me well tomorrow.”

“I should think so. I’ll have the mare for you at first light,” he says, smirking. She nods, not trusting herself to speak for fear of further incriminating herself. Genna Lannister already knows she’s in love with Jaime. She can’t have Ser Daven and young Martyn under the same impression. 

He has her ride beside him, even though she struggles to keep up and worries he is too indiscreet. That small doubt is quickly quieted by the gleam in his eyes and the relaxed set of his shoulders. She’s never been with him like this in the daylight. She’s never seen the sun rain down on his golden hair and catch the lovely color in his eyes. 

“You’re staring,” he mocks. “I’d suggest a little more decorum.”

“I am only taking in the sights, my lord.”

“Is the Gold Road so interesting?”

She stares at him again, this time with the intention of being caught. She watches his reaction as she unabashedly drinks him in head to toe. His eyes darken just the slightest in this bright sun. “Very interesting, my lord.”

She rides with him every morning for the last few days of the trip and wrinkles her nose as the stench of King’s Landing draws closer. “Does the Queen know I’m coming?” she worriedly asks, remembering how the woman disregarded her once the betrothal had been broken.  

“No, I didn’t have the time to write. They’re expecting me to bring Lady Lysa.”

In one sentence, the blissful pleasure of riding at Jaime’s side is gone. “The Queen does not love me,” she confesses. “I wish you had warned her.”

“You worry too much, Lady Sansa. I can handle my sister, and it will make the surprise sweeter for yours.”

She shakes her head. “Arya has no great love for me either.”

He turns to her with puzzled eyes, and she cannot blame him. She has been so excited to see Arya since Ser Jaime allowed her to join him. Even if the two sisters are not close, she wants to see her kin. She wants to know how her younger sister fares in King’s Landing. Does she feel as alone as Sansa had, when she is South, and all the other wolves rest safely together in the North?

“She weds Prince Tommen thanks to you. Surely she is grateful.”

Sansa laughs. “You don’t know my sister very well.” 

When they arrive in King’s Landing at last, she is shown to her chambers. As the court was expecting Lady Lysa, her rooms are close to Ser Jaime’s--so close she cannot help but blush when she is escorted to them, especially when she spies the door adjoining her rooms with his. The maids draw her a bath before she will see her sister; the sound of water sloshing through the wall tells her Jaime has the same idea. She imagines him while she bathes, imagines seeing him, imagines him seeing her--oh, the feast seems so far away. She won’t see him again until he escorts her to the great hall it’s being held in. To wear to the feast, she chooses a gown she’s been working on for some time. Her mother would never approve of this design, an emerald green dress adorned with carefully stitched golden diamonds. The gown leaves her arms bare, and the square cut of the bodice plunges into the newly developed breasts she is so proud of. It is a gown Margaery Tyrell would wear. 

She feels the eyes of  everyone when she enters the great hall.  Arya’s eyes are shocked, her once beloved Joffrey’s stare fills her with satisfaction. She wants him to regret turning her aside. Queen Cersei looks enraged, and normally she would shrink under her, but the dress gives her too much confidence, the feel of her arm in Ser Jaime’s gives her too much confidence, the whisperers around her give her confidence for she knows they whisper about her. 

“We thought your wife was attending, Brother,” the Queen says coolly. 

“Lady Lysa tends to our son. She sends her niece in her place to celebrate Prince Joffrey’s nameday.”

“It must not be lost on you how inappropriate it is to host her in the Red Keep. It puts the Prince in an awkward position.”

“I have no objections, Mother,” Joffrey says, leering at the neckline of Sansa’s gown. Lady Margaery sits beside him, lovely as ever, but perhaps he’s already grown bored of the Tyrell rose the same way he had grown bored of Sansa once. 

“See, Joffrey doesn’t mind,” bellows Robert, already well within his cups. Tywin Lannister and Jon Arryn sit beside him, drinking their wine more carefully. As Cersei is the only one with reservations, Sansa knows she is allowed to stay. Jaime is invited to sit with his father and brother, Tyrion, who’s been in King’s Landing since Tywin was first named Master of Coin. Sansa, however, is seated beside Joffrey once he asks Margaery to sit with her cousins further down the table. Sansa wishes he hadn’t moved Margaery. She remembers how humiliating it had been to be overlooked publicly by her Prince. 

But now Prince Tommen sits to her right, and he is the only one separating her from Arya. “You look so grown up,” she says to her sister, thirteen years old now, wearing the grey and white colors of House Stark. 

“Not as grown as you,” Arya replies, glancing at her gown once again. “How are Aunt Lysa and our cousin Robert?”

“They are well,” she lies easily. “I am grateful for their hospitality. Prince Tommen, I trust my sister is not too wild for you.”

The boy beams between sips of his soup. “She’s perfect,” he says. 

Sansa must admit she is surprised. She thought the two of them would make a miserable pair, but perhaps his sweetness is the perfect contrast to her sister’s rough edges. “I am happy for you. May the Gods bless your union.”

“And yours to our cousin Robert,” Tommen proposes, so sweetly she does not believe it is a mockery. Still, it is the only comment to dampen her mood so far. 

“It’s been too long, Lady Sansa,” Joffrey says to her. 

“Yes, your grace, almost a year.”

“I never knew maidens could blossom so much in a year.”

“Oh, your Lady Margaery looks even fairer than I remember,” she courteously replies. 

Joffrey scoffs, leaning closer to her, close enough to see that her wine goblet is nearly empty. He lifts it to the air so that a cupbearer may refill it. Once filled, he has her take another sip. “Not nearly as fair as you.”

“You are too kind, your grace.” 

“I’ve missed you.”

“Have you?” she asks, despite herself. Could there be a chance for her still?

“Greatly.”

She finishes all the wine in her cup at the Prince’s behest and laughs heartily at everything Joffrey says by the time she finishes her third round. She is tired from the merriment all too soon, and Joffrey arranges for one of his guards to escort her back to her chambers. Only then does she look for Ser Jaime across the table. He is supposed to be her escort, but she does not see him anymore, and she wonders where he could have gone. 

She finds him in her chambers, sitting on the chaise near her bed, sipping at his wine. “You missed the pie,” she tells him when he doesn’t speak. 

He laughs darkly. “Do you really think he’ll take you back?” he asks. His tone and his words leave tears stinging in Sansa’s eyes. “You did, didn’t you? You pranced around in your little gown and got his attention, but that’s all you’ll get. I don’t care how long he looks at you, or how many little promises he whispers in your ear--Margaery Tyrell will be his queen, not you.”

The harsh truth leaves her crossing her arms in front of her, protecting herself from his words. "I was supposed to be," she cries.

“ _ Supposed to be _ ,” he scoffs. “Do you know what I’m supposed to be? A knight of the bloody kingsguard, that’s what. I was one of the seven before the war, and then Robert dismissed me and took my sister for a wife in exchange for my father’s support. Lysa was supposed to marry some other lord. Your mother was supposed to marry your uncle. My firstborn son was supposed to have a Lannister name, but instead he’s named for our drunken king at the insistence of my father. It doesn’t much matter what’s supposed to be, does it?” He drinks some more from his cup and settles his temper before he continues speaking. “You know what else? I’m not supposed to be here.”

“I can see you to your rooms, my lord,” she offers. 

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

Her heart skips. He stands up from the chaise and walks towards her, placing his wine on her closest table. “I’m not supposed to let you stay,” she reminds him. “I am your niece.”

“The niece to my lady. We do not share blood.”

“Do you love your lady?” Sansa asks unnecessarily. She knows he does not. He does not waste his breath with an answer. “Did you ever?” she amends.

“Never, and she never loved me. I haven’t loved anyone in years.”

“Who did you love?” she wonders. 

“It doesn’t matter now,” he tells her, scooping her into his arms and kissing her as passionately as he had that night at Casterly Rock. He follows his great kiss with lighter ones, to her cheeks, to her jaw, to her neck, as his hands dig into the small of her back. When he pulls away, she reaches back, but he does not kiss her. Instead, he asks, “Do you still love Joffrey?”

“ _ No _ ,” she says so enthusiastically that he laughs. She claws at his linen shirt while his hands explore the bodice of the gown she worked so hard on. She can’t help but moan against his lips when his hands reach the bare skin spilling out over the neckline. 

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight,” he tells her, kissing the tops of her breasts, loosening the laces of her dress. 

“Why didn’t you stay?” she wonders.

“And watch you with Joffrey? No, I knew you’d come here eventually.” He pushes the thin straps from her shoulders, and the loosened gown falls to her feet in one swift movement. She stands before him in only her shift. She thinks she should be desperate to clothe herself again, but instead she finds herself wanting to take off more. She wants him to kiss every inch of her, to satisfy the heat thrumming through her. He throws his shirt to some far corner of the room and captures her lips again. One hand toys with her breasts through her shift; the other takes her hand and guides it towards his bulging manhood, encouraging her to stroke him through the fabric. 

Somehow, without disconnecting them, he draws her to her bed and pushes her body beneath the canopy. She pulls him atop her, scratching at the bare skin of his back excitedly while he sucks at her breast through her shift. The wetness of the fabric increases the pleasure even more as his tongue finally dips underneath and bites at her pink, pointed nipples. She moans into his ear, louder and louder until he finally has to quiet her with his lips. He breaks away to tear their last pieces of clothing off, and she lays naked before him as she never has for any other man. She’s not supposed to do this with anyone but her husband, especially not someone else’s husband, but Jaime’s right. Things don’t happen the way they’re supposed to. 

“Do you love me?” he demands, darting his hand out to separate her thighs. 

“Yes,” she barely has time to exhale the syllable as he thrusts himself deeply within her. The pain is immediate, and she cries out as she struggles to adjust to him. He silences her with more kisses down her neck to call some of the pleasure back to her. He is still inside her when she begins to relax and moves slowly at first, then faster and faster until she derives pleasure from having him inside her. He grunts into her ear as his thrusts become harder, kissing her sloppily and seeking his sweet release. Her legs wrap around his torso, heels dig into the small of his back, arms hold him as close as she can. She needs him as close as possible.

“Do you love me?” she returns desperately as she feels her own pleasure swelling inside her. 

“Yes,” he growls before pulling himself from her, spilling his seed and her blood on the blanket beneath him. He collapses on top of her when he finishes and tenderly runs his fingers through her auburn hair in a way that reminds her of when he first started seeing her to her room after their dinners. He kisses her lips softly as they catch their breath, and despite it all, Sansa begins to cry. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I wish it wasn’t like this. I wish we didn’t have to hide.”

He kisses her again. “One day we won’t,” he promises before dressing himself. He lights a fire in the hearth even though they’re both sweltering and burns the soiled blanket. He kisses her one last time before opening the door that leads to his chambers and leaving her alone with her thoughts. 

_ One day we won’t _ , she thinks to herself as the uncomfortable soreness settles between her thighs.  _ One day we won’t _ , she thinks as he leaves her alone during the day and sits far away from her during the festivities.  _ One day we won’t _ , she thinks as Jaime unseats every other man in the tournament without her favor.  _ One day we won’t _ , she thinks every time Jaime leaves after making love to her. 

When they return to Casterly Rock, and they no longer have the convenience of adjoining rooms, Sansa begins to lose hope. He is married to her aunt, and she will have to marry his weak son when the boy finally comes of age. She prays to the Gods for forgiveness every day. Her mother did not raise her to be some kind of whore. She wants the Gods to understand that she loves Jaime, that she truly feels like a complete soul when she is with him. “I am his, and he is mine,” she whispers to them in the Lannisport sept, begging them to understand. 

Robert’s health takes a turn for the worse when he develops a raging fever. The maesters try each of their remedies on the young Lord Lannister, and Sansa watches at his bedside. Her aunt clutches her hand each time a remedy fails. Sansa watches the sweat bead on her cousin’s forehead uneasily; she watches his eyes turn yellow and his skin grow pale. “He will not make it through the night,” the maesters say. 

Lysa screeches like a hawk and demands the maesters do more to cure her boy. Jaime watches him suffer silently before he can’t take it anymore. He visits Sansa in her room that night, for the first time since they left King’s Landing. “He is my only son,” he tells her sadly. 

She undresses him and guides him to her, and when she feels the telltale signs of his release, she holds him closer, taking his seed inside her.  _ I’ll give you another _ , she vows to herself. 

Robert’s body is taken to the sept the next day to Sansa’s surprise. She didn’t think Aunt Lysa would willingly part with the body. Jaime visits her again that night and the night after as well, each time spilling his seed in her, each time staying longer than the last. On the next night, however, he does not visit her, and it is the following morning her aunt Lysa’s body is discovered beneath the cliffs of Casterly Rock. 

“Only the Mother knows how deeply the Lady Lysa grieved for your son,” Kevan Lannister says. “I am sorry for your losses, Jaime.”

“The Father gives me strength,” Jaime tells his uncle thickly. He visits her again that night, holding her tightly. He leaves her bed too soon for her taste.

“Don’t go yet,” she begs.

“I have to.”

“Jaime--” 

He kisses her to hush her protests. She doesn’t understand why they still have to pretend. His wife is gone now. Her betrothed is gone. How long do they have to keep hiding? “We have to wait,” he tells her. “We still wear our mourning clothes.”

Rage rushes through her. She pushes him away. “Stop coming to me at night then if you mourn her during the day.”

He grabs her shoulders, pulling her to him. She pushes him away again halfheartedly, but it is useless against the strength of Jaime Lannister. “It’s a little convenient, don’t you think?” he whispers in her ear. “We can’t let people get suspicious.”

_ Why would they get suspicious _ , she wants to ask. Lords remarry hastily all the time, especially when they are left without heirs. Then it dawns on her, how Jaime visited her every night except the fateful one.

“Did you poison your son?” she hisses as quietly as she can. 

“No, his sickness was genuine.”

“But Aunt Lysa?” The look on his face says it all. He’ll never confirm it for her, and she finds she does not want to know the specifics, but somehow she knows Lysa did not throw herself from the cliffs on her own.

“She would only want to be with Robert,” he says to her. “And I only want to be with you.”

She traces the palms of his hands carefully with her fingertips. These hands once killed a king for the realm, killed enemies of the crown, killed enemies of the innocent, and now they kill the innocent...for her. She’ll have to beg for the Gods’ forgiveness all over again, she thinks when he leaves her with a last searing kiss. They’re hiding again tonight, they’ll be hiding until Jaime tells her they don’t have to anymore.  _ One day we won’t _ , he promised when they first confessed their love. How can an emotion so pure become the root of things so evil? She wants to hate herself, to hate him, but she can’t, not when they’re so close. 

That day is just out of her fingertips--the day Jaime wraps his crimson cloak around her and kisses her in front of all of Lannisport, the day everyone calls her  _ Lady Lannister  _ and listens to her commands, the day the household loves Jaime’s second wife who is so much more competent than the first, the day she puts a healthy son in his arms and they raise him with the same pure love her parents raised her with--but she has hope again. The day is coming.

Jaime finds her in the sitting room just after her sixteenth nameday. He has a letter in his hand from Tywin Lannister, urging him to remarry. She notices it is the first day he does not wear his mourning clothes. The sight of him settles the nausea she suspects has something to do with her missed moonsblood, and she wraps her arms around his neck. He spins her around the room, kissing her lovingly. She tries not to think about their sins anymore, only that their day has finally come.


End file.
